


Giant Steps

by Missy



Category: Greek and Roman Mythology
Genre: Female Friendship, Gen, Marriage, Minor Character Death, Sewing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-26
Updated: 2013-04-26
Packaged: 2017-12-09 13:28:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/774745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Missy/pseuds/Missy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some things only a fellow woman can understand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Giant Steps

**Author's Note:**

  * For [betony](https://archiveofourown.org/users/betony/gifts).



She brought ambrosia from the north when word arrived of Ariadne’s placement among the stars, carefully mending the hem of her chiton with a slim skein of golden thread. She knew how it was – and if their cases didn’t entirely match she certainly understood how it goes and what it feels like, the transition from flesh to immortality, the queerness of being entirely yourself yet entirely ephemeral. 

Eros told her that she shouldn’t fuss so. “Let her learn for herself what it’s like,” he said, notching an arrow, testing his sigths. 

“She won’t be ready,” fretted Psyche, swaddling Bliss against her milk-swollen breasts, feeling a river of emotion drip from the core of her being. “It’s not something you’d understand, beloved.”

He rested the bow upon the table between them and took her head. “I wish it were easy for you to live in this realm.”

“It cannot be ambrosia raining from the sky every second.” Her nervous laughter likely telegraphed her true feelings about the matter. No matter how kind, how graceful, a mortal transposed toward immortality might be, she could never be naturally born to the throne. That was left to the goddesses surrounding her, the ones born of a thigh or a forehead or a trapped swan, those made of the divine seed of Zeus. She, meanwhile, was left to run fallow and foolish; she was a human, and knew no better way to behave.

“Ahh, but just will it and I would make it so.”

She frowned at him. Bliss hiccupped, blowing a spitbubble. “Why should I conjure when I can create with my own hands?”

He gave her a roguish smile. “But why create when you could blink the world into being?” he laced his fingers through her free hand. “You are my adored, splendid wife, but ah, you’re so very mortal.”

Psyche realized that Eros could never fathom what it was to have your life warped so dramatically by fate – spoiled son of Aphrodite, he’d never lifted a finger before in his life, content to live as his mother’s happy messenger of love and lust. 

She withdrew, her smile forced to brightness. “A woman understands,” she said simply, “what a man cannot.”

*** 

Psyche was late greeting the girl, after all – Bliss is fussy and, in spite of her heavenly nickname, did not react with the temperate summery nature of a child her royal stature ought to. Her mother remembered too late the ambrosia she'd forgotten in the royal apartments and marched, chagrined, into the fray. Psyche tucked the baby against her breast and fought her way through the mass of gods and goddesses paying homage to the new lady of the vineyards. 

“Ariadne,” Psyche trilled, bowing, her chiton held outward in a curtsy as she cradled the fussing Bliss to her breast. “I’m sorry for my lateness, “she continued. “But Bliss is teething.”

Ariadne’s gray eyes lit when she saw the blonde child’s face, half-hidden among the silken blankets. “I didn’t know babies could be born here.”

Dionysus’ merry laugh filled the air, his arm slung around her shoulders. “My dear innocent. Haven’t you heard of Leda and Athena? I was torn myself from my father's body.”

Ariadne turned her eyes downward, mumbling an apologetic no. “It’s well enough, my treasure. You couldn’t have learned much of anything while you were alone on that accursed isle.”

That unintentional stab toward Ariadne’s intelligence put Psyche on the defense. “I’ve heard,” said Psyche, bring herself out of the curtsy, “that you poisoned the Minotaur! How clever you must be to trick him to drink it down when no man before could defeat him.”

Ariadne’s face turned a scarlet as her hair. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Psyche drew back, her boisterousness disappearing. “All right,” she said, reaching for the girl’s slim, sun-blessed fingers. Ariadne had been a woman of the wild, quite clearly so, and Psyche could imagine her among the serfs who worshiped Demeter, hauling sacks of grapes up to be pressed, kneeling at incense-scented altar by evening light . Psyche, born to be a sacrifice of beauty, had been sheltered from the heat and pampered by her parents, both of whom feared the wrath of Aphrodite as they prepared their daughter for the ultimate sacrifice.

She plunged ahead instead of correcting her previous mistake. “Would you like to visit the bath?”

“Gods bathe?” chirped Ariadne.

Psyche grinned, slinging an arm round Ariadne’s waist, hoisting Bliss against her opposing shoulder and pulling her from Dionysus’ grip. “The warmest and softest-flowing waters in all the world flow here.”

Eager to be away from the picky, jealous crowd of gods, Ariadne followed Psyche’s lead and stepped through the clearing pathway. 

“Psyche!” bellowed Dionysus jovially. “Treat her gently,” he cautioned, but Psyche pressed her lips into a thin smile and then gave him a mock-bow, spiriting the younger woman to the safety and secluded nature of the baths.

*** 

Ariadne’s clearly-etched surprise at the lushness of the small spring delighted Psyche. Clearly the girl has never been exposed to such luxury before, her feet dipping into the warmed perfumed waters and gently paddling against the wavlets licking at her toes.

The sudsy lather of triple-milled soap caked her fingertips while Psyche played hide-and-seek with Bliss, tiring the girl out on gasps and giggles before lying her down to rest among the warm safety of the dirt.

All the while Ariadne watched the twosome, her chin tucked into her open palm. “Is it really that much fun?” she asked.

“Motherhood?” At Ariadne’s eager nod, Psyche broke into a gale of laughter. “Oh honey, no. It’s a struggle just to get her together every morning. I’m no luckier than any other Athenian that way.” Stroking against Bliss’ soft feet, she asked, “has Dionysus spoken of children?”

Ariadne nodded quickly. “But I haven’t considered them. I’m sure it will be no trouble,” she added wryly, “I’m to be married to the god of ecstasy. I understand that to be a wondrous thing” 

“You haven’t consummated your love?”

She pointed toward her head. “I have not yet been crowned. It lies to Zeus to marry us, and he’s busy overseeing the wars.” They both knew that Dionysus was not the sort to wait long on pleasure; that he cared to wait at all showed the world how precious Ariadne was to him.

Psyche remembered her own long trial and shuddered. “You are different to him.”

“Must we speak of him?” she smiled. “Though I love the man, there are many subjects over which to dwell. To be honest with you, I’m still getting used to their being a world outside of Naxos.” She played nervously with the hem of her stola. 

Psyche reached out for the woman’s chilled fingers. “Theseus is not among the supplicants of your husband. You won’t ever see him again.”

Violently, Ariadne pulled away from Psyche’s touch. “Good, for if I ever see him I shall strike him dead!” Psyche gasped; Gods could be rash and volatile by nature, but their bursts of temper still ran counter-course to the girl’s own gentleness. “He broke my heart for many a month,” Ariadne continued. “Is it any wonder that I feel enmity?”

“No,” admitted Psyche. “Sometimes I’m amazed I’m not angry with Eros. I had to move mountains for that boy. Let’s face it, honey.”

“They don’t understand!” cried Psyche and Ariadne simultaneously.

“Well,” laughed Psyche. “I guess that’s why we ex-mortals have each other.” She tucked her chin against the warm dirt of Olympus. “What’s the one thing you wished you had more time for when you were tending the Minotaur?”

“Please don’t bring him up…”

“Well?”

“Sewing,” admitted Ariadne.

“Then why don’t we borrow needles from Athena and get to work?” she asked.

“Could we?”

“Should we?”

The women grinned at one another.

“Yes!”

***  
And so daily the goddesses could be seen, working on their stitchery in tandem, Ariadne crafting her own bridal gown and Psyche clothing for Bliss. They chattered happily to each other of their pasts and futures

The men in their lives – completely surprised by their shared bond, though not displeased by it, didn’t think to protest her work. Though it did occur to Eros to check with his sister, to avoid further nastiness in the vein of the unfortunate Arcane. “She has made her tribute to me in full,” explained Athena with a shrug. “And they do not seek to outdo me, brother.”

Dionysus then pulled him away for a drink. “It’s a woman’s affair,” he said, and the two children of Zeus drank deep into their cups.

*** 

Zeus finally returned, and the wedding of Dionysus and Ariadne was plotted and planned. The two women finally finished their projects and gathered together to dress Ariadne for her marriage. The bride was in a stormy state as Psyche attended her.

“Did you see her? Your MOTHER-in-law has come to us bearing honey cakes,” snapped Ariadne. 

“She is the mother of his children,” observed Psyche, as if her family’s tangled web of interlocking romances were a perfectly natural thing. She strung together Ariadne’s under-tunic and chiton, then helped her with her diadem. 

Whatever words Ariadne wished to speak died in her throat. She gasped and backed away from Psyche, from the handmirror and the rich earthen objects of the bridal suite. “The child! What is she wearing?”

The true fright and shock in her friend’s voice made Psyche edgy. “What is it?” wondered Psyche. “She’s fine, I just dressed her in her new…”

Psyche gasped to see the pattern she’d made during their many friendly discussions. How could she have sewn a Minotaur onto the child’s outfit?

Ariadne was, however, in another world entirely. “He trusted me,” she whispered. “trusted me with his very life and he died at my hands. It was my poison who slew him, not the sword of that foolish man!” Ariadne shivered at Psyche’s warble. “How can you break bread with a murderer?” 

Psyche gave her a crooked smile, gently embracing the trembling woman. “My mother-in-law’s killed more men than I can count. You killed a beast that had terrorized your island for years.”

“He was my only friend.”

“Not anymore,” Psyche said. The woman’s tears dried slowly, and Psyche dried them with the back of her hands. To both women’s surprise, glittering rocks appeared upon Psyche’s fingertips – she shrugged and shook them away, but they landed among the veil and diadem. 

“Leave them in,” said Ariadne. “They give it life and sparkle. “ Then, with great feeling, she clasped Psyche’s hands. “oh please,” Ariadne begged. “Stand beside me as my lady of character.”

Psyche smiled; of course she would; and she didn’t need to say so. 

The two women left hand-in-hand, their work-calloused fingers glued together with tears.

**Author's Note:**

> Characters are within the public domain.


End file.
